


Toxic

by sujing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst and Tragedy, Husbands, Inaccurate portrayal of British education systems, Jealousy, M/M, POV Tom Riddle, Toxic Relationships, domestic angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 20:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20020582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sujing/pseuds/sujing
Summary: Tom and Harry have been married for two years, and Tom’s already just hanging by a thread.





	Toxic

**Author's Note:**

> I approve of none of this. This depicts an intensely unhealthy relationship, possibly bordering on abusive. 
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction that uses characters from and the world of Harry Potter, owned by J.K. Rowling.

Every morning, as the sun peers over the horizon, casting patches of light through the windows of their flat, Harry serves breakfast for two with a quick peck to Tom’s lips. “Morning, love,” he’ll greet with a cheerful grin, warmth radiating from that halo that is his unblemished soul. So lovely, so pure. Tom should be the luckiest man alive to have Harry as his husband, and he can hardly believe it still.

It would all come crashing down if he ever loses Harry. If Harry ever…leaves. He would allow those dark depths to consume him whole, lose himself in that pain, that sickening, freeing anguish. 

They say that love can heal all wounds. That love can turn a beast into a man, a demon back to the light. What they don’t tell you is _what happens when that love is taken away._

Despair. Rage. An inferno that stops for nothing. All too aware, Tom clings to Harry, trying not to see the tendrils of black flame licking at his heels in hungry anticipation for the day he loses himself to the monster within. 

It’s an addiction. Harry’s showered, generous love is an addiction that Tom can’t stop. To Tom, love-starved as a child and tossed unwanted between two halves of a broken marriage before it became too much and he was _forced_ to act, it’s a leaden ball and chain at his ankle that he would die without. Its weight pulls at him, drags him down towards his demise, the metal shackle rubbing his skin raw to the bone. Tries to tear him to halves at the waist while Harry’s love soars them up towards the heavens. 

Every morning, as the sun peers over the horizon, Tom tells beautiful lies to his husband that rot him from the inside. It is all he knows, all he can do to stay afloat, digging his jagged, desperate claws into Harry’s flesh (so tender, so soft, so _easy_ to pierce) even as he prays to nothing, begging not to cause injury. Harming him means risking losing him, and Tom won’t have that. That his is a hopeless endeavour is unthinkable.

“Oh, Tom, I love you more with each passing day,” Harry murmurs, his breath tickling against the skin of Tom’s throat as he reaches around the chair to embrace Tom from behind. Harry’s chest presses against the back of Tom’s shoulders, and Tom goes rigid. 

“As do I,” Tom replies, stilted, quashing the tremor rising in his chest that threatens to crumble his crown of lies to a mound of shimmering dust. Harry’s hands are suddenly too warm, too close…and Tom can do nothing to push him away. 

Harry sees none of his struggle. Tom…doesn’t know what he sees. It’s not the persona Tom projects to the public, that carefully crafted mask (too thin, ever too thin in the face of his tenuous hold on his temper). Harry has borne witness to too much of Tom’s weakness to think any of that true. More than Tom ever intended. More than he should ever have allowed, but Harry has always been the exception to his rules. Harry is _still here,_ after all. 

Tom’s hand clenches. The glass shatters, an invisible crack collapsing from the foundation up, shards digging greedily into his palm, but the wound grants no pain, even as pink clouds pale white. Milk spills over the table and onto the floor, soaking into the cracks between ceramic tiles. 

“Tom?” Harry asks, worry in his voice. Not fear, never that—at least not of Tom. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m only tired,” Tom says, voice unnaturally high, almost in a rasp. If Harry notices, he does not show it. “You know how they are at work.”

“Cleaning up after Trelawney again?”

“No, I wish.” Tom sighs. “Dumbledore. Sorry,” Tom interjects before Harry can move, “I’ll tidy this up. There’s still time before I have to catch the train.” 

Harry shoots Tom a concerned look as he gets to his feet, the pink-tinted liquid still drip-dropping off the table ledge, but Tom brushes it aside, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“You can always talk to me,” Harry says. “I know what it’s like…or maybe I don’t,” he amends, “but I’ll listen. I’ll always listen.” 

“I know.”

* * *

“Are you doing well, my boy?” the headmaster asks, eyes too bright for a man so old. As welcome as concern from Harry might be, Tom will never accept it from _him._ Not the one who helped Tom into his current position at Hogwarts, the most prestigious boarding school in all of Britain, only out of pity back when Dippet was still in charge. Though Dippet was headmaster then, Dumbledore already had significant influence, and everyone knew Dippet valued his opinion most highly. 

It’s patronising. Being treated like a stray cat in need of being taken under a protective wing. Something feral—something that will hurt itself without a watchful eye. He can’t feel grateful for that. Won’t, if only for his pride. 

Dumbledore has always seen through Tom. And though he must disapprove of his tendencies, for some reason, likely his moral sensibilities, he just won’t stop hounding after him, poking his crooked nose into aspects of Tom’s personal life that he has no right to interfere in. 

Tom’s in a rush, because while he’s taken the same route he takes every morning down to the exact train, the long commute is time he should have spent preparing his lessons for the day. Residence at the school was offered to him upon his hiring, as it is to all staff, but he refused it, wanting to spend as little time as possible within Dumbledore’s reach, wanting to stay with Harry. That, of course, put them far from the school, the sole village near its forested highland grounds too expensive for Tom to afford. Harry easily could have, what with his sizeable inheritance, but Tom wouldn’t let him pay: they always split the bills evenly.

As he took the morning train, he couldn’t focus, an unidentifiable fog over his mind. He’s fallen behind; cracks are showing in his weakening facade, and it’s only a matter of time before others start to notice. Dumbledore already has, yes, but that’s nothing new. Only an omen for what is to come. 

“Why are you here?” Tom snaps, staring pointedly down the corridor ahead even as Dumbledore keeps pace at his side. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Horace’s replacement—”

“—has been found,” Dumbledore says, amused. “And just in the nick of time, given his rather abrupt departure. A recent BA graduate of Oxspots who completed the Natural Science Tripos with a focus on physics. Perhaps you know him.” 

“I doubt it,” Tom says, straining not to show the interest bubbling within him. Oxspots, his alma mater, which he could only afford due to the multitude of scholarships he obtained through his impeccable grades, persuasion, and the sheer force of will it took to apply to damn near everything he qualified for. “It seems like a waste of talent,” he observes under his breath. 

“As it is, I thought you might like to meet him, having attended the same university. Not terribly sociable, but he means well. Quite competent, too, and I know how much that means to you.” 

God, Tom can hear the twinkling in his eyes, never hidden despite the half-moon glasses that perch on Dumbledore’s nose. 

“I might,” he allows. “He’s coming in today?” 

“He is,” Dumbledore affirms, “but only to orient himself and get a sense of his bearings. Since you have your afternoon free today, would you mind giving him a tour of the school?” 

* * *

The first thing Tom notices is the hooked growth protruding from the centre of the man’s face. The second is the hateful sneer that adorns it, wrinkling the man’s sallow skin, except that can’t be right, because Tom’s never met him before and it’s definitely directed at him. He would… _should…_ remember. Irritated, Tom is suddenly tempted to point it out to him. 

“The new chemistry professor, I presume?” Tom says instead with false pleasantry, but all he gets in response is the raising of a dark eyebrow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister…”

“Snape. Severus Snape,” the man provides, beady black eyes fixed unblinkingly on Tom. “And you’re Tom Riddle. Resident gold digger.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“I see you haven’t changed.” There’s the shadow of a smile on Snape’s face now, twisted and hideous. 

* * *

It turns out that Tom _has_ met Snape before, though he does not remember it. All he retains from his days as an underpaid UTA (one among a sea of his senior GTAs) under Merrythought are hazy recollections of faceless students, pages upon pages of memorised materials and equations, and the feeling of chalk dust on his fingers. 

He tries to get Snape to elaborate as they tour the grounds, to find an explanation for why he seems to despise Tom so much, but all Tom can glean is that he knows Harry somehow. 

That doesn’t help, of course. _Everyone_ knows Harry, the Daily Prophet whistle-blower that exposed their rampant corruption and bribery only a short year ago before promptly quitting his job there as an editor. Many see him as a hero of justice, bringing the truth to light as it should be, while others have reason to hate him for it. 

As the children say, no one likes a tattletale. 

Tom doesn’t know which it is, who Snape holds such a strong grudge against. It could be both. 

When he takes the train home again, looking forward to returning to the comfort of his home where Harry awaits, it’s still weighing on his mind. It’s an unproductive ride, as far as they come, but he’s always used the trip home to disentangle the day’s stress from his system and let down the walls that conceal his true nature. 

This time, however, he just doesn’t manage. It’s like something has snapped, shattered like the cup from that morning, never to be put together again. It feels like ages ago that there wasn’t an undercurrent of tension in their every interaction.

Before he realises it, he’s missed his stop. Resigned, he doesn’t get off at the next one, just watches out the car window in silence as the sun moves lower in the sky, casting an orange glow. Passengers come and go, gradually dwindling in number as the train draws closer to the terminus where it will turn around and head back in the opposite direction. 

By the time the train makes its way back to Tom’s stop, he’s over an hour off schedule. He should have called Harry long ago to let him know so that he wouldn’t wait up for Tom, but something prevented him—something sick inside him that doesn’t want to admit how shaken he truly is. 

The flat is dark when Tom enters. Flicking on the lights, Tom sees his dinner laid out on the counter for him, cold, and something snags in his chest.

Guilt. 

He picks up a note tucked neatly under the plate. In Harry’s familiar scrawl is a short message: _“I hope nothing serious kept you. I’ve already eaten, so don’t worry about me.”_ Looking to the hallway, he sees that both their bedroom and the study Harry usually writes in are unlit, none of the usual warm light creeping out to illuminate the walls. It’s concerning, since Harry doesn’t make a habit of sleeping so early, claiming that his productivity is highest in the wee hours before sunrise. Tom wonders for the first time whether Harry sleeps at all, being the first of them to wake day after day. Tom would check on him, except he’s still avoiding him, not knowing what to say. Whether to lie again. 

He eats alone at the same table that glass shattered over, now pristine again, no traces to indicate anything ever went wrong. In the silence, the shine of the fluorescent light is too harsh, too white and unwelcoming. 

When he slips into their bed, Harry does not stir. 

* * *

Lunchtime at Hogwarts is a tedious affair, the Great Hall filled with the raucous noise of hundreds of students conversing and horsing around. After hours of holding still and remaining quiet during their morning classes, the students expunge their pent-up energy with enthusiasm. And as long as no one is hurt, the headmaster allows all manner of disruptive behaviour. 

“How did your first lessons go?” Tom asks casually to the man on his left. “It must be quite the adjustment, dealing with students, unless you’ve taught before?” 

Snape should have if he’s ever gone through the proper training to become a teacher. But, as far as Tom knows, he hasn’t been through Oxspots’s PGCE programme. Tom _should_ know, what with Abraxas being part of the Faculty of Education’s administration. He asked his friend to search their records the previous night, hoping for information on Snape, any clue, but…nothing. 

It’s possible he hasn’t. Hogwarts isn’t a state-funded school, so while having your PGCE completed is preferred, Dumbledore doesn’t necessarily hire based on proper qualifications. Case in point: Trelawney. 

He’s met with silence, then the sound of a fork scraping against porcelain. 

“Fine,” Snape finally says. 

“Just—fine?”

There’s a tense moment before Snape sighs, puts his fork down on his napkin, and turns to face Tom with an assessing gaze. “What do you want, Riddle?” 

“I just want to make sure you’re settling in fine. There’s no need to get defensive.” Tom raises his hands and smiles in a way that he hopes is placating, but from the flat look on Snape’s face, it isn’t working. He sets them down again, but the smile remains, albeit strained. 

His face hurts. 

“You want information,” Snape guesses. “Like yesterday. Because I surprised you, and you don’t like not knowing. It makes you uncomfortable.”

“I am curious, yes. Would you care to enlighten me? It’s not every day that I get such a reaction from someone I’m meeting for the first time, at least as far as I can recall.”

Snape frowns, his lips pressed into a thin line, and Tom expects him to say no. But the bell rings, and Snape is standing again, his coat sweeping up behind him. 

“After classes,” Snape says as he begins to head off. “I’ll tell you then.”

* * *

They meet in an unused classroom on the ground floor, a middle point between the chemistry labs in the basement of a fringe wing that is now Snape’s domain and the top of the tower in which Tom delivers his lessons on physics. 

“So,” Tom says as he shuts the door firm behind him, authority on his tongue. “Explain.”

“You’re going to have to elaborate,” Snape drawls. “What do you want me to explain? The principles of redox reactions? Dynamic equilibrium? I can assure you I know the material well, if you require a refresher.” 

Tom’s lip twitches, but he doesn’t rise to the provocation. “I want to know what you have against me,” he says, “and what your relationship with Harry is.” 

“Ah… _Potter,_ ” Snape says, almost in a snarl. “The golden boy who only ever does things halfway. Dropping out, leaving a respectable job to fail as a freelance writer. I had the great pleasure of first meeting him during my second year of study, but you’ll have to ask him yourself to hear that particular tale. You, on the other hand…you cling to him like a disease.

“He talks about you,” Snape continues, “all the time. Like a lovesick puppy slobbering words of adoration. It’s revolting.” 

“And why,” Tom presses, “is that any of your concern?” 

“Despite how much of an annoyance Potter is, I happen to care for his well-being,” Snape replies, “and you”—his finger jabs hard at Tom’s chest—“are not it.”

* * *

“Harry?” Tom calls, peering over Harry’s shoulder at the document open on his computer. It’s an article about the latest football match, or at least it should be, according to one of the team names that Tom dimly recognises: the Montrose Magpies. 

“Yes, Tom?” Harry answers, and Tom can’t help but notice a faint tiredness in his voice that wasn’t there a day ago. Not this morning, either, he thinks, except he barely recalls breakfast save for the feeling of Harry’s lips against his. 

“Do you know Severus Snape?”

“Oh.” The typing stops. “Yeah—about a head taller than me, dark hair that makes him look like a drowned bat, and a sharp tongue to boot. You know him?” 

“He’s the new chemistry professor,” Tom explains, sinking into the chair in the corner to face Harry, setting his bag on the floor at its side. “Doesn’t like me very much.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t like anyone.” 

“He said I should ask you how you met. He said I’m…”

“You’re what?” 

_A disease._

“Clingy.” 

Harry suppresses a laugh. It comes out as a choked splutter. “That sounds more like _me._ Are you sure he was talking about you? Maybe he got us confused; Lord knows that happens too often,” he jokes.

It might be a trick of the light, but Harry looks flustered, even a bit peaky. _How odd._ Tom forces himself to smile, to appear friendly, like he isn’t ready to snap at a moment, but the question is eating at his heart. “So how _did_ you meet?”

“Michaelmas term. First-year lit—the professor forced us into a joint project. Pairs. Jaded science student just trying to get his required English credits, you know? Had a stick up his arse, so…”—Harry manages to look sheepish—“I may have torn into him. We disagreed on just about everything, and it only escalated from there.” 

“And you’re friends now?”

Harry pauses in consideration before answering. “Something like that, yeah,” he muses. 

“He’s oddly protective,” Tom remarks, ice creeping up his spine. 

“Yeah.” Something flashes across Harry’s eyes, but before Tom can identify it, it’s gone again. “You should eat.”

 _Right._ For the second time in two days, Tom has arrived home late, held up by his talk with Snape. He rather hopes that is not becoming the norm. 

* * *

Lunchtime again. Laughter rings in the background, a chorus of cheer that slides off Tom like water on slick oil. 

“I asked,” Tom says without looking up, finding a newfound respect for Snape growing unwittingly within himself. It’s a begrudging one, one he’d uproot if he could. It doesn’t mean Tom likes Snape, far from it. 

“What did he say?” Snape asks disinterestedly. 

“You’re friends,” Tom states. It sounds like an accusation, hot and bitter in his mouth. 

Snape just looks thoughtful at that, giving neither confirmation nor denial. “He would say that,” he says, and Tom swears he detects a note of fondness he never noticed before. 

“And you expect me to believe that?”

Tom should stop. This is no longer fishing for information, no longer trying to provoke Snape for the joy of doing so. There’s a black wave of something hateful, something simultaneously possessive and destructive rearing up within him, threatening to tear his control away. Already, it’s slipping, and if it does, Snape will be proven right. 

Snape shrugs, a dismissive roll of his spindly shoulders. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Why shouldn’t— _how should I know?”_ Tom hisses. His hands have become claws; his nails dig into the wood of the long staff table as if to gouge. Minerva shoots him a questioning look from the other end, but something about him seems to make her turn away just as quickly. Lost in the cacophony of conversations blending together, no one else notices anything wrong. 

“Well, well. Riddle, you have things so easy you don’t know what it means to lose. You can’t handle it, not even the thought. You’re always the best, always having things handed to you on a silver platter by blind devotees like Merrythought, and it’s always been you discarding them when you’re bored, hasn’t it? Never the other way around. 

“You feel threatened now, and it scares you. Like the ground is crumbling beneath your feet. Ironically, you choosing to leave is the correct answer, this one time, if you love him as much as you seem to think.”

He’s _wrong._ Tom is someone who has fought against the odds and won. Snape knows _nothing_ of what he’s been through to get to the point he’s at today. Snape is a judgemental _stranger,_ and where Dumbledore at least has known him for upwards of a decade, Snape has nothing to base his accusations on. Nothing, except… _Harry._

Something in his words hits home, a grain of truth in a palace of lies. Tom bites back a snarl, and the sweet tang of iron tickles his mouth, his lip stinging. “What do you want?” he demands. 

Snape grins, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. “Oh, that’s simple. I only want to teach what you teach. Physics.”

* * *

“You’re hiding something from me.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the wheels of the chair creaking against the floor. Then something seems to transform within him, and there’s a hard set to his jaw made only stronger by the shadows of the green banker’s lamp. For Tom, it’s only another reminder to steel himself for the truth. 

He lets the silence hang like pointed knives from the ceiling. It’ll do no good to push too hard, but he has to know. 

Harry’s voice is cold when he speaks, icy and diplomatic. “Does this have anything to do with why you’ve been acting so strange?” 

It catches Tom off guard. For the briefest moment, he considers that perhaps he’s going about this the wrong way, but then a stab of indignance at the audacity Harry has to speak to Tom like _that_ when all he wants is the truth comes and knocks the thought away. 

“I’m worried for you, Tom. It’s not like you to be so withdrawn, not with me. I told you I’d listen—”

“I have nothing to say. Don’t deflect, Harry; answer the question.”

 _“Deflect?”_ Harry says, incredulity sharpening his tone. “I’m deflecting? _You’re_ deflecting, Tom, and have been for days! I don’t even know”—his voice screeches to a harsh whine—“what has you so worked up. What I’ve done wrong.”

“Snape. Something’s going on between you and him, and I want to know what.”

Harry’s hands clench into fists, a dead giveaway to Tom, who knows how to watch for every one of his tells. “You’re being paranoid again,” he accuses, “seeing ghosts where there are none. There’s nothing between us, just an old classroom feud.”

“So tell me if there’s truly _nothing,”_ Tom says, mocking. “What’s the harm? I’ve seen your heart, Harry, and you’ll hardly shock me anymore. Is it something embarrassing that seals your pretty lips?”

A blaze of righteous fury billows into existence where Harry is, so bright Tom can see its reflection burning in his eyes. 

“What right do you have to know everything about my life, anyway? Am I _obligated_ to tell? Do you think I owe you or something, is that it?”

“I’m your _husband,”_ Tom snaps, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realises that it’s the wrong thing to say. 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be!”

Tom’s fist slams into Harry’s desk, sending a stack of paper tumbling off the edge. The lamp leans from its perch on the top shelf, and Tom watches, frozen, as it slips to come crashing over Harry’s head. 

Instantly, Tom deflates. Concern rushes through his veins like a deadly injection, a viper’s venom, a current of toxic fear chasing at its back. He finally looks at Harry—really _looks_ at Harry, sitting there in a mess of glass shards that should be as brilliant and green as his eyes when they catch the sun, blood dripping from his forehead, drawing a jagged bolt of lighting that runs black in the darkness now enveloping them. 

He’s afraid. Harry shouldn’t ever be afraid, not of him. 

_Look what you’ve done, Tom._

“I just… We were like…hate buddies. There were…so many spiteful letters exchanged. When you and I first got together,” Harry chokes, the memory suddenly painful, “I was horrible to him. I sent him photos of you, bragging about how perfect you were, because he was so caught up in his studies and his research that I thought he’d never have anyone. 

“You made me so happy. So good, for the both of us, that I didn’t want you to know that side of me. But it doesn’t matter now.

“… Just get out, Tom.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut, blood trickling over their lids, and there’s a note of finality there that gives no space for argument.

_You choosing to leave is the right answer._

Tom turns tail and runs. Darts out the door of Harry’s study, stumbles blindly down the hall to the exit, nails scratching on the walls as he feels his way, only the dim glow of moonlight sneaking between the blinds. Leaves Harry sitting there, stunned and still bleeding, hands clutched around his head. 

* * *

It’s a small blessing in a pit of divine retribution that the trains run late in their area. The air is cool and empty save for the occasional swarm of midges that surround the lights at the platform, and Tom hops on the first train that stops at their station, not knowing—not _wanting_ to know—its destination. Just that he needs to get somewhere far away, because the alternative is far more disturbing. 

He’s the sole passenger of the car he’s in, the ends sealed shut by doors only maintenance workers can open. Out of habit, the trains normally packed during his rush-hour commutes, he stands near the sliding doors despite the rows of vacant seats around himself, leaning against the clear plastic of a divider. A wave of dizziness sweeps over him as exhaustion settles in his bones. 

He sinks to the floor, uncaring for how thick a layer of feet-tracked grime it must have, heart as empty as the train he’s riding. Possessionless, save for the memories of a fleeting happiness, now gone for good. 

* * *

_Year four at Oxspots. Tom is working towards his PGCE in hopes of becoming a teacher and returning to the school that was his home away from home._

_Prestigious, Hogwarts was expensive, but Tom could afford it back then. That is, his_ father, _Tom Riddle Sr, could. Wealthy was his father’s family, and it showed. They paid for everything Tom needed, and while his mother never had to work a day since his parents joined their hands in marriage, that didn’t save them from their violent fights._

_Where they were rich in coin, they were poor in love._

_When they passed away in a tragic car accident soon after Tom’s graduation, to all the image of a perfect (not so) couple, Tom didn’t receive a drop of inheritance. It turned out that everything was under his grandparents’ names, and they weren’t much inclined to give him anything._

_“That boy needs to learn how to fend for himself,” they said. But the truth was that they just didn’t care. They’d never approved, Tom knows, not of their son’s disastrous marriage to a dirty peasant girl._

_Merope. Oh, how Tom despised her, just as he pitied her. She was a wreck, and an ugly one, too._

_With every ounce of his being, Tom strives not to be like her. Not to be like his father, either, though he knows not which is worse. Whether he has succeeded has yet to be seen._

_Late October. Already the leaves are beginning to turn in preparation for their fall. They shine golden yellows and fiery oranges against the light of the sun, dotting the sides of the streets as they walk. Tom leads at the front of the group, wearing proud his mantle as the president of the OU Hiking Society. Every now and then, he checks over his shoulder to make sure they haven’t lost anyone, though he trusts his VP, Bella, to bring up the rear._

_“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice calls out. A head cranes around at his side to peer up at his face. It’s a boy, cherubic, tousled dark hair and the brightest eyes Tom has ever seen hiding almost shyly behind a pair of too-thick glasses. “Tom, right? I’m Harry, Harry Potter. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot—all good things, of course.”_

_Potter extends his hand, and they shake. Warm, not quite firm, but a sort of resolute determination runs underneath his soft surface._

_“A pleasure.”_

_“So, what’s it like being the president of the renowned Hiking Club? There must be a ton of stuff you handle behind the scenes. I’m amazed by how many committee members you have organising events and planning fundraisers and the like. Actually,” Potter adds with a playful lilt, “you probably know every bit of juicy gossip there is to know, huh?”_

_Tom rolls his eyes, but more than anything, he’s amused. It’s not in him to allow others’ cheerful moods to influence him, but something about this new member of theirs is simply infectious._

_“No, no. I assure you that the OU Hiking_ Society _is a drama-free zone. It’s quite boring, truthfully, all the administrative details. It’s an endless torrent of scheduling conflicts and room bookings and inclement weather and cancellations.”_

_Potter frowns. “That doesn’t sound like the president’s job,” he remarks._

_“It’s not, but I like to make sure that everything runs smoothly.”_

_As they reach the trailhead, Tom stops abruptly and Potter brushes against him, surprised, but Tom gives no reaction to the contact. They watch as the rest of the group file in to form a half-circle with Tom and Potter at its centre._

_Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap._

_Clap! Clap! Clap-clap-clap!_

_It’s the sort of thing that a primary school teacher would do to get his students’ attention, but it works. Besides, Tom is something of a recovering caffeine-addicted TA, and the path of least resistance is his weapon of choice._

_“All right, everyone,” Tom calls. “We’re going to be taking the Black Lake Loop. Measuring in at 10 kilometres in length, it’ll bring us up towards and around the lake with minimal elevation change. If things go smoothly, the whole trip will take us about three hours, just in time to bring us home for supper. Later in the year, we’ll be exploring trails of greater difficulty, but for now, we’ll take this as a warm-up._

_“Highlights include, well, the lake”—a chorus of laughter from the half-ringed group—“and the giant squid rumoured to live in its depths, though to this day not a single soul has been able to deliver definitive evidence of its existence._

_“Best of luck to you all.”_

* * *

_“Why are you so enthusiastic?” Tom wonders aloud. “You’re shaking with it.” He looks down at their hands, clasped together since the start of the trail. He’s like a puppy, one that’s been deprived of the great outdoors and natural light and is just_ dying _to see them returned to him._

_Ridiculous. Tom doesn’t know why he’s entertaining him._

_“It’s my first time hiking,” Potter says with a grin. “Everything’s new and exciting. And you—you’re a natural leader, so I don’t feel worried at all.”_

_Something flutters in Tom’s chest, a butterfly aching to be freed from its cage of bones._

_“How did you get so good?”_

_“Pardon?”_

_“At leading?”_

_“For me, it was necessary to be independent. To be able to lead where others would not, not in my interest, at least,” Tom explains, hoping Potter won’t press for details._

_He does, of course._

_“Necessary?” Potter asks, lips pursed together. “Why was it necessary?”_

_Tom sighs and obliges, telling the tale of his tumultuous relationship with his parents and its grim end._

* * *

_“There’s a good Chinese place near here if you’d like me to show you. Cheap and filling. So many choices you could stare at the menu all night, but I can give you recommendations that’ll be sure to please.”_

_Harry smiles up at him. “That would be wonderful, Tom.”_

_The sky is dark by the time they find their way to the doors of the small establishment. It’s out of the way, hidden up a flight of stairs in a back parking lot, a neon OPEN sign hanging in the window. When they enter, they are greeted by a woman with a heavy accent that only accentuates her bubbly personality. Red paper lanterns hang from a divider separating the waiting area from the diners, and a tank of oranda goldfish rests on a carved wooden cabinet, casting a bluish water-ripple glow onto the wall at its back._

_There’s a speaker up near the ceiling playing an old folk tune. A feminine voice accompanies the melodic thrums of the guqin. There’s a strange note of melancholy to her singing like nostalgia for better times, though Tom understands none of the words._

_It’s broken by a sudden burst of laughter from Harry. “Oh!” he exclaims, pointing at something on the menu. “‘Extra spicy mapo doufu’—I’ve always wanted to try that.”_

_“Then spicy tofu you shall have, Harry.”_

* * *

It’s been a week since he left everything he had behind. A week since he left Harry, and he hasn’t heard a whisper from him since. It’s like there’s a cavern of silence somewhere deep within a cave hidden beneath craggy cliff rocks, and he’s all alone inside with a mountain of corpses, all of his own making. 

The echoes of his grieving moans are all that sound in his misery. 

It’s been a week since he moved in at Hogwarts, and though his colleagues try to pry, Dumbledore at their helm, the sole being who has the slightest clue what is wrong with him is Snape. There’s an odd sort of comfort in that, confiding in the enemy, someone you don’t have to worry about judging you because you know they will and you don’t care. They’re almost like friends now, and Tom wonders if that’s how Harry ended up, well… 

“You would have hurt him more,” Snape says, holding up a flask to examine it for traces of the day’s labs. His voice is calm and unaccusing, just stating the plain, hard truth. “You would have killed him if you hadn’t left. Killed him like you did your parents.”

Tom’s head snaps around, his body threatening to topple from the stool upon which he is perched. “You know?” he asks breathlessly. _“How?”_

“It doesn’t matter, Riddle. Only that Potter will never need to know. Rejoice in that.”

“Blackmail?” Tom seethes. “Really, Snape?” But just as quickly as his temper rises, the cold grip of loss overwhelms him again. 

“You did the right thing. I would know, speaking from experience. Once, I was a physicist, a rising star in the field. One of the youngest in Britain, so they said, but then came L.I.L.Y.”

“L.I.L.Y.?”

“My most beloved research project. Somewhere along the way, we hit a wall. One we couldn’t surpass, no matter how I tried. Things got too toxic with the team—the Marauders, we called ourselves, though I never approved of that name—and I started hating my work. Hating _her,_ even. I had to step back. I did.”

“You don’t regret it?”

“Not on my life.”

* * *

_Tom,_

_I wish things didn’t have to end this way. But I’m not going to ask you to come back, nor will I apologise, because it won’t make a difference._

_We’ve made our mistakes. Now we have to live with them._

_I hope you’re better._

_Harry_

* * *

“Harry!” Hermione shouts from across the street, waving her mittened hands in the air as if to catch the snowflakes drifting from the sky, Ron standing at her side. “It’s been so long!”


End file.
